


if you sing these words (we’ll never die)

by dangerousgays



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - No Band, Angst, Cute, Grim Reaper Frank Iero, M/M, Pencey Prep - Freeform, Smut, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 16:00:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangerousgays/pseuds/dangerousgays
Summary: "So!" the grim reaper starts with a clap, huge bat-wing sleeves flying. It's too loud for 7 in the morning on a winter Saturday. "So I'm a grim reaper."Gerard sighs into his cup, steam blowing into his face. The grim reaper doesn't use any cream when he makes coffee, apparently. "I'd gathered,” he says.





	if you sing these words (we’ll never die)

**Author's Note:**

> enjoy!!!

gerard comes downstairs one morning to find the grim reaper making coffee in his kitchen. 

"don't freak out," the grim reaper says, pouring out two cups. he adds sugar from gerard's own container on the counter. 

so gerard doesn't. he does as he's told. he stands there, feet freezing on the cold kitchen floor, and waits. 

he reaches out and takes the mug robotically when it's handed to him. he realizes belatedly that the grim reaper has knuckle tattoos. 

the grim reaper gestures to gerard's kitchen table, one inked hand emerging from his oversized black robe. "please, have a seat."

gerard sits. 

"so!" the grim reaper starts with a clap, huge bat-wing sleeves flying. it's too loud for 7 in the morning on a winter saturday. "so i'm a grim reaper."

gerard sighs into his cup, steam blowing into his face. the grim reaper doesn't use any cream when he makes coffee, apparently. "i'd gathered." 

he can't see the creature's expression, the folds and layers of the deep-set cowl blocking all of his features, but gerard thinks he detects a hint of pleased surprise in the reaper's body language. "oh! very nice! should i assume you would know why i'm here, then?"

"no," gerard says grumpily. "not at all." he wonders to himself where his life went so awry that there's a grim reaper in his kitchen, but all he cares about is how badly it makes coffee. 

"oh," the thing says, sounding a little sad. "well, you're supposed to die next week."

gerard doesn't even startle. he's been a struggling art student for three years now. he's probably been closer to death than this before. "really," he says in a monotone, watching steam swirl off of the grim reaper's own coffee he still hasn't touched. "also, you didn't put enough cream in this."

"you're drinking it anyways," the grim reaper replies, almost snottily, and takes a sip of his own coffee. gerard realizes, annoyed, that he's right. "anyways, aren't you concerned about the whole death thing?" 

"no," gerard says again. "not really."

"okay, well, the key words were 'supposed to'. you're not actually going to die next week."

"nice," gerard says. 

"yeah! yeah, it is nice!"

"why?" gerard has the courtesy to ask, because it really doesn't seem like the grim reaper has any concept of time and gerard's got to get down to starbucks for his shift. 

"you're my yearly pass!" the grim reaper says, excitedly. 

"cool," gerard says, risking a glance at the clock. he's got time. "what the fuck does that mean?"

"i get one pass a year— y'know, to like, not reap someone's soul— and so this year i chose you!" 

"huh," gerard muses, oddly honored. "that's nice. what's your name?" 

"uh..." says the reaper. 

"surely you have a name," gerard presses impatiently. "i'm gerard."

he looks down. he's out of coffee- when did that happen? he mentally shrugs to himself. 

"i know," the reaper says faintly. "i'm frank. just... not used to being asked my name by people i've told they're about to die."

gerard furrows his brow. "you just said i'm not going to die." 

"you're not!" frank says, waving a hand. "you know what i meant."

"sure," gerard says. he gestures to frank's also-empty cup. "want me to take that?" 

he thinks frank nods, but it's hard to tell with the hood. 

speaking of the hood— gerard finds himself wanting to know what frank looks like. he might as well; frank was supposed to kill him, or take his soul or whatever, so they might as well get to know each other. 

gerard turns round from the sink where he's rinsing out the mugs. "take your hood off," he says, surprising himself when it comes out demandingly. 

the reaper looks up from where he's been studying the whorls and grain of the wooden table. "oh! of course, i'm sorry, that's so rude of me." hallelujah— he thinks gerard's only motivation is, like, manners-related. 

he reaches up with an inked hand and pulls back the black cowl, and fuck. gerard's grim reaper is smokin' and oh god, he totally wants to get it on with the grim reaper. 

he's got the finest jawline gerard's ever seen, high cheekbones and dark hair just this side of too shaggy. and neck tattoos? ugh, that is one hell of a man. he's short as fuck, but gerard can totally fucking get with that. he kind of wants to suck his dick. 

"okay," gerard says skeptically, trying to shove his mind away from cock-sucking territory. "that's what you actually look like?"

"yeah," the reaper says. "why?"

"nothing. so i'm good to go? not gonna die within the next two weeks?" 

he notices frank's gaze flick up to above his head, and he takes a little offense at that. yeah, okay, his hair is messy and greasy and maybe he doesn't remember the last time he washes it with anything but water, but in gerard's defense he didn't exactly wake up this morning expecting to have coffee with a grim reaper. 

"yup!" is all frank says, gaze moving back down to meet gerard's eyes with a blazing smile. "well, i'll be going. see you eventually, i think!" as if his visit wasn't ominous enough without the last bit. 

frank pushes his chair back from the table and stands. he pulls his hood back up, wiggles his fingers in a tiny wave, and vanishes in a small pop of purple sparks. 

gerard goes to work. 

-

a year and a half later, gerard is pretty much an alcoholic. 

it's a hot summer night, his first summer season out of college, and he's already flat broke. it's barely even evening and he's at a club's bar, perched precariously on a stool and already absolutely sloshed. 

he prefers to go get hammered at bars with music, a soundtrack he can enjoy while he progressively loses the ability to speak or tell another man no. this bar is his favorite. 

as he watches tonight's act set up, nursing whatever random mixed drink the bartender will give him, he realizes there's something familiar about the broad-shouldered man soundchecking the main mic. gerard thinks that maybe the man is just another person he might have slept with before, or something. he's been around the block a few times by now. yeah, he's lonely. so what?

it's not long before the lights go out and the crowded floor of underaged teens and freshly out-of-college punks start to scream like the act is some sort of world-famous superstar. 

he turns across the bar to order another drink as somebody introduces the band. 

"hey, new jersey!" a voice yells roughly above the crowd. "tonight's our night!"

the voice is familiar to gerard too. he turns around, almost falling off the stool in the process because oh god, he is absolutely plastered. brand new shot in hand, he allows himself to look around the stage, his eyes already bleary. 

the lead singer is frank, his sluggish brain supplies. frank the hot grim reaper. 

gerard's not going to pretend he didn't spend the month after frank's visit completely polarized. he was both scared to death of death, while at the same time thinking about frank's tattooed hands while getting off and how good they would look around his cock or down his throat or something. 

he sighs loudly, but it's drowned out by bass and drums and yelling and singing and all he can do is pound his shot and turn around for another. the bartenders know him and know that he tips well, so gerard can always count on them to let him get fucked up. 

frank is screaming words like he's running out of time. the bass reverberates in gerard's skull. 

he's going to need a lot more alcohol. 

-

the band finishes their set an hour and a half later, thanking the crowd for only two broken noses this show ("a record!" frank says, sounding the same kind of pleasantly surprised he had in gerard's kitchen) and their energy. 

gerard follows the rush out for a smoke, seeing frank again having made him jittery and unsettled. he stumbles a little from all the shots he's thrown back and almost falls on his ass twice, but he manages to make it into a dimly lit side alley. the sunset throws long shadows across the siding, and he lazily trails his blurred vision across them as he lights up. while he smokes, he watches the band pack their amps and instruments into a clean-looking van a few yards further down the alley through bleary eyes. 

there's frank, all strong arms and sleeve tattoos and nice cheekbones, helping his crew load up, and yeah, gerard still wants to bone him. 

gerard inhales slowly. frank brings him back to the memory of that stupid morning, but he doesn't want to be reminded of the fact that he's still alive. he didn't deserve to be the one frank saved- he's an alcoholic, unsuccessful, broke waste of a life.  jesus, he thinks to himself. that's so fucking dramatic. he's just glad he's had so much to drink that he'll barely remember his own name in the morning, let alone this whole failure of a night out. 

he exhales slowly, looking up at the cloudy, sunset-lit sky, and he's going to clumsily stub out his cigarette against the wall when he feels the whisper of a hand on his arm. he brings his gaze back down. 

it's frank. 

he looks away. 

"gerard," frank says. 

"no robes," gerard blurts. "looks hot." 

he never could hold his alcohol well, and fuckfuckfuck, because now frank knows gerard wants to press him up against the closest wall. 

frank laughs lightly, but really he looks slightly concerned. "no robes. i did my job and got out. and— thanks, i guess. you look good too, as always."

he wonders a little when 'always' is, but mostly all gerard can do is nod, ignore that last part, and avoid his gaze. he's embarrassed.  
seeing frank again, almost two years later, makes gerard feel the first real emotion he's experienced in months besides anger or pure, crushing despair. it pushes through the alcohol to the surface. 

guilt. 

how must frank feel, seeing the person he used one of his saves on throwing their second-chance life to the wind?

"i have to go," gerard's mouth says of it's own accord. he finally looks up at frank's face. he looks sad, but gerard's slow, drunk brain can't process why. 

frank lets go of his arm, his glance flicking above gerard's head again. 

gerard has just enough brainpower to feel confusedly offended about this. he did his hair to go out. it's red now, firetruck red, and he even brushed it two days ago. 

"you need to take care of yourself," frank says.

but gerard's heard that stupid sentiment a thousand times before. from his mother, from his brother mikey, from his friends ray and brian. but from frank, it sounds less like a caring cliche and more like some sort of warning. 

frank reaches out for gerard's face, barely trailing a single finger along his jawbone for a second before pulling back, and oh god, maybe alcohol fucks with his dick and he hasn't realized before. he wants to get on his knees so bad from just that feather of a touch.

but then frank's bandmates call for him from the van. they appear to have finished packing up, and gerard's alcohol-addled brain is grateful. he needs to get away now. 

"please, gerard," frank says insistently even as he steps away, eyes locking onto gerard's. "i can't save you again." 

and then he's gone, down the alley and into the waiting van. 

"i don't need saving," gerard insists to the empty air. he fails to convince even himself. 

he stumbles out of the alley, throwing his cigarette butt to the side and staggering to the entrance of the bar to see if he can hail a taxi or some sort of rideshare home. he pushes through the crowded front patio area and to the curb.

that's when he trips over some prick even more sloshed than he is who's passed out on the sidewalk and falls, headfirst, onto the black tar of the road.

he's out like a light even as pain starts to explode through his skull. 

-

gerard is groggy and incredibly in pain when he wakes up. he's used to killer headaches the morning after a night out at the bar, but nothing like this. it feels like an axe is cleaving at his brain in time with his heartbeat. 

then he realizes he's not in his own room, sprawled on unwashed sheets surrounded by month's worth of untouched art— he's in somebody else's bed, and he isn't alone. 

frank is there, wearing plaid pajama pants and a red fitted t-shirt, his short frame curled up into a ball above the covers in the bed by gerard's side where he's asleep and breathing shallowly. 

huh. 

as gerard begins to shift, wondering what the fuck happened last night, frank stirs and sits up. he looks alarmed, glancing around the room, before fixing his gaze on gerard and visibly relaxing. "hi!" he says, almost cheery, and jesus fuck, man's got a hot fucking morning voice. 

"hi," gerard croaks. his morning voice sounds more like some furry animal crawled down his throat and died. 

frank seems to notice gerard's confusion at his surroundings. "you got hammered, and then you fell," he explains to him. "hit your head real hard. we watched you eat asphalt, so tim and i got you in the van. this is my house."

all gerard can say is, "thanks." he coughs once, and then adds, "i thought you said you weren't going to be able to save me again." he means to say it with a bit of humor, but frank immediately looks worried. 

"about that," frank says. "you need to get clean. of— of everything, whatever you do. otherwise..."

and then gerard finally understands why the fuck frank keeps glancing up above his head and looking like he's going to vomit. 

"you're saying," gerard says, waveringly, "that if i don't, i don't have much time left." when he swallows hard, it hurts. "i have a..." he gestures vaguely. "a countdown."

frank can only nod. "side effect of... the job. i can see some people's." 

"okay," gerard says faintly. while he'd been drinking his life away, he'd thought he didn't care if he lived or died. now, faced with actual, certain death, he's not so sure. he's so thankful for frank he could almost kiss him. almost. 

frank stirs. he slides out of bed, stands up, and makes a beeline for the door. "you're gonna have to stay for a few days," he says, turning around with his door on the handle. "we think you have a concussion and you need to go to the doctor but- sorry, but- i'm not letting you go until i'm sure you're not going to— y'know." he trails off. 

"are you leaving?" gerard asks, his voice climbing on the last word. fuck's sake, he sounds like a ten year old. or just a desperate adult, his brain adds. he doesn't even know frank. they're not friends. why does he care so much?

"just gonna get you something to eat," frank reassures him. his hand is back on the knob and he's out the door before gerard can get another word in.

gerard flops his head back on the pillow before he can think better of it and groans as he sees stars. he lays and breathes for a minute until he can see again, and tries to sort out what happened last night. 

he knows he went out to get fucked up, and he remembers some of their little alleyway scene. he figures sometime while he was drinking or dancing or sucking some dude's dick in the bathroom he whacked his head and frank saw him do it and so now he's in frank's house, jesus fuck, gerard hopes this isn't his bed. 

he just finds himself hoping they didn't fuck. he never remembers his hookups, their notes on his bedside table all he's got to place who and where, but frank feels different. if he fucked frank, gee hopes he'd remember it. when frank nudges the door open ten minutes later- with plates of fucking breakfast, who is this guy?- gerard finds that he has to ask. 

"we didn't fuck, right?" he blurts, and then he recalls another part of their conversation. "oh god, i told you you looked hot." 

frank looks a little offended at the first part, but he laughs a little. it's kind of bad that gerard's happy he doesn't look disgusted at the prospect, right?

"dude," frank says, slowly putting the plates down on the edge of the bed and making eye contact with gerard, and wow, that's uncomfortable. "you were drunk off your ass." 

"never stopped anyone before," gerard tries to joke, but it falls flat. again. fuck. 

"and unconscious," frank adds, before gerard can make himself look any more stupid in front of a hot guy. but then again, frank's already seen him knock himself out while hammered, so maybe the damage is already done.

"maybe that has," gerard says. "i wouldn't know." 

frank pointedly ignores his last sentence and grabs a pillow from the ground. "sit up," he says, and when gerard complies he pushes the pillow behind his back to prop him up. a plate is pushed along the bedspread to gerard and then frank's settling into a chair next to the bed with his own. 

"thank you," gerard says around a small bite of toast. 

"no problem," frank says, and gerard's surprised to find he sounds like he actually  
means it's no problem to feed and house an out-of-college deadbeat who smashed his head on a rather aggressive patch of pavement. 

he keeps eating. it makes him feel a little better, and the pounding in his skull settles into a steady beat that's more like a tribe of warriors with drums than a herd of elephants with tap shoes on a linoleum floor. 

"so, uh," gerard starts when he's nearly done. "i'm still not gonna die, right?" 

"no," frank says. "not yet." 

"nice," gerard says. he looks down at his empty plate and makes to get off the bed. frank just watches, a small smile on his face. "i'll get out of you hair now," gee says, but when he tries to slide off the side and stand up his dumb, traitor, weak-ass legs collapse underneath him. 

it appears frank is a traitor too, from the way gerard can see him holding back a laugh as he hauls him up off the floorboards- jesus, when did wood get so fucking hard?- and sets him on his ass back on the bed. holy shit, frank is strong, and it's not just apparent in the way he gently manhandles gee but also in the way gee notices his muscles flex. not that he's watching frank's arms, or anything, don't get the wrong idea. 

frank finally explodes, laughing his ass of while gerard watches him grouchily, one eyebrow raised as he waits for the giggles to abate. 

"christ, man," frank finally says, swiping underneath his eyes roughly like gerard's plight was so fucking funny he cried. "did- did you really think you could just walk out after smashing your head on rocks?" 

"yes," gerard gripes, crossing his arms. 

"well," frank says, "you can't. i told you you'd be here a few days. but if you'd like to go into the kitchen or the living room, i can certainly help with that. you can hop on my back or something."

gerard grudgingly obliges- it seems like his only option. frank deposits him on the couch, and damn, he's got a nice apartment, all open concept and airy with windows and no walls and-

"you play?" gerard asks, when he notices the fucking gorgeous les paul hanging from hooks next to the tv. 

"i do," frank says from the kitchen. "you saw my band, but i guess you don't remember."

gerard doesn't, and he feels genuinely bad about it. "what're you guys called?" he asks.  

"pencey prep," frank says, and gerard nods to himself. he can appreciate a catcher in the rye reference. 

he treads over to gerard and hands him a cup of coffee. 

"just like old times," gerard says, gesturing with his cup to frank's. "thanks for not killing me."

frank smiles a little over the rim of his own mug. "anytime, gee," he says, and oh, fuck yeah, nicknames usually mean gerard's getting somewhere.

"i'm going back to bed, if you don't mind," gerard says through a yawn. it's weird, and he feels like he's forcing himself on frank, but really frank is the one insisting he stay here. "i'm good on the couch," he adds. he's a little dizzy, but he figures that's a given considering how he'd almost cracked his own skull. 

"absolutely," frank says, putting his coffee down on the aptly-named table, and grabbing a blanket from a stack to the side. jesus fuck, gerard wants to know how he got so lucky. he's in a hot guy's house, and he's in a band, and they didn't fuck drunk, and okay, maybe he's got a concussion, but at least that's what landed him here. 

maybe friend? a stupid, primal part of his mind asks. 

no, answers another part. only fuck. 

shut up, gerard thinks. friend and then fuck!

this satisfies his mind, and he lays back as frank fucking brushes the hair off his forehead before throwing the blanket out over him. 

"sleep well, gee," he says. 

gerard is out like a light for the second time in two days.

**Author's Note:**

> please comment and let me know what u thought & give me some new au ideas after this lil one’s done! part two of this should be up tomorrow or the day after & i have a vamp au in the works too. <333


End file.
